Linked
by RayWritesThings
Summary: John Constantine returns to Star after the death of Damien Darhk with some news: the part of Oliver that's been missing since April 6th isn't as lost as they've all thought. Post-"Schism", "Eleven-Fifty-Nine" Fix-it, Rated for dark themes (Also how come Constantine isn't a character option?)


**Hello, readers. I've decided to start cross-posting some of my fics from AO3 and tumblr over to FFN, so if you recognize this story most likely you've read it on either of my accounts there (Ray_Writes and raywritesthings, respectively). If you haven't read it before, I hope you enjoy!**

**-RayWritesThings**

**Linked**

"Well I've got to say, you aren't taking very good care of these pretty girls, Oliver."

He hadn't heard the other man's approach and barely refrained from leaping up from his crouched position into a protective stance.

But John Constantine was a friend. And Oliver hardly felt himself a suitable guard for Laurel's grave when he hadn't even been able to look out for her when she was alive.

"Didn't expect to hear from you so soon," he greeted instead, slowly rising to his full height.

"Didn't expect to hear you'd gone toe-to-toe with Damien Darhk and defeated him," was the reply as the other man drew up to his side. "Much less lived."

Oliver shrugged. "He wasn't the first League member I've gone up against. Once it came down to a physical fight it was just about survival. And I'm pretty good at that," he acknowledged with what might have been wry humor. It was hard to tell; he hadn't actually found much reason to joke around in the last month. Not since…

"Yeah, that's the thing, mate." There was something in John's voice that caused him to lift his eyes from the headstone he'd automatically returned his gaze to. "You cancelled out his magic. That doesn't just _happen_. And definitely not to a beginner like you."

"Then I got lucky," Oliver stated. He didn't like talking about Darhk's demise so matter-of-factly, not here. In the moment, he had felt vindicated by Felicity's anger and Lance's grief. Now he could take no pride in what he'd done, knowing just how little Laurel would have appreciated his vengeance. "Like your shaman friend said. It happens."

John shook his head with a smirk. "That's not what Esrin said to me."

"Well what did she say?" He asked in growing irritation. It was constantly bubbling under the surface these days. "I failed her tests, and to be honest with you, John, if I never have to deal with magic again it'll be too soon." It took an effort for him to unclench his fists and draw in a breath in order to calm himself. "What'd you even ask me to meet you for?"

"Because you didn't fail. Not in the traditional sense, anyway," the occultist told him.

"But…" Oliver wasn't sure how to process this new information. "I couldn't channel the light of the soul. I have too much darkness in me."

"Mate, if you had that much darkness in you, you wouldn't be risking your life to save a bunch of strangers every night. And you certainly wouldn't be pure of heart," he added with a wink. "You have _la Luz Del Alma_, Oliver, probably always have."

"Then—" his brow furrowed as he questioned, "—why did she say I didn't?"

"Well magic's a complicated thing. And something like this? Even she hadn't seen it in ages, didn't recognize it at first—"

"What? Didn't recognize _what_, John?" He finally snapped. "Is there a point to this? Why you wanted to meet? And _here_, of all places?"

"Esrin Fortuna, an immortal, saw something in you she hasn't encountered in _centuries_ and you're wondering if there's a point?" The other man leveled him with a look. "The point is that I'm trying to help you here, mate. Because, well, it's my own bloody fault in the first place."

If there was anything he could've said to throw Oliver off, that was it. "What do you mean?"

"The reason I asked you to meet me here. This isn't just about you, mate…it's about Laurel."

He might as well have just punched him again. Oliver found he couldn't speak, and he had to rein in the impulse to reach out to the headstone that bore that very name for support.

John, fortunately, didn't wait for his response. "Shaman are experienced with spirits, both good and bad. And what Esrin realized after you left was that you've got yourself one."

Oliver blinked. "You're saying…I'm possessed?" It registered dimly that had almost been a laugh on the end. The closest he'd gotten since—since.

"Like I said, it's a complicated thing."

"And your fault."

"Getting to that. Look, Esrin explained to you about the idol, right? Darhk's idol," he clarified.

Oliver gave a single nod. "It channeled the power he got from the people he killed."

"Right. As long as that idol was intact, he should have been able to absorb power from the souls of every person he killed. _Every_ one of them."

It was only after the repetition that Oliver jolted with realization. His eyes darted again to the tombstone. "Oh God."

"Hang on, mate, I said _should have_." John clapped a hand onto his shoulder, forcing him to meet his gaze again. "What Esrin realized was that it hadn't worked out that way in one case: Laurel's."

John was finally speaking plainly, and yet Oliver was feeling more confused than ever. "Darhk didn't absorb Laurel's soul," he checked before anything else, and when that got a nod he struggled on. "And Esrin knows that…because of me? Because I'm—John, you can't possibly be saying what I think you're saying."

"Esrin thought you didn't have the light within you necessary to fight off the darkness," the other man stated. "But in reality you were already using it for something else—to protect the spirit that was residing in you. It's not strictly a possession," John hastened to add as Oliver felt himself sway on his feet. He really did catch himself on the tombstone.

"Laurel's—Laurel's spirit," he had to try twice. His voice was hoarse to his own ears. "_How?_"

"You were already linked, in a spiritual sense. When the both of you crossed over to the other realm for her sister's soul," the occultist revealed.

"You…linked our souls together," Oliver began slowly, "and you didn't think to tell us? Or to mention the side-effects until now?"

"Well it wasn't as if one of you was planning to shove off for the other realm yourselves any time soon!" John returned, not nearly as defensive as Oliver would have liked him to be considering the turn of events. "And anyway, even then it shouldn't have happened, but—"

"But what?"

"—the tattoo I gave you. It allows you to channel magic the way the idol did for Darhk. When her soul left her body, your connection acted as a pull and kept Darhk from absorbing its power."

Oliver found himself shaking his head. "But I would have felt something, wouldn't I? I'm not any different. I'm not more powerful."

"What do you think cancelled out Darhk's magic? You were drawing on the light that's in _both_ of you, the light that even in death he couldn't snuff out. That's powerful stuff." John drew in a breath, then said, "And you're not feeling different because…well, you're protecting it. When someone like Darhk absorbs a soul, he's interested in the raw power and nothing else. But your connection with Laurel is different, mate. If I'm right, you haven't absorbed Laurel Lance's soul. You've _preserved_ it."

"Preserved?" He echoed faintly. The hand still gripping the headstone slipped off it and rose to his chest. Oliver didn't have the first clue where a preserved soul resided within a person, but he'd unerringly rested his palm over his heart. "What do we do?"

"Easier said than done, I'll give you that," John warned, "but we put it back where it belongs." His gaze fell to the grave. "You might want to call on some of those friends of yours…we've got some digging to do."

It was long past nightfall by the time they had relocated everything that John said they'd need to the base. With two people it was slow-going, as the other man had reminded in near constant grumbles. But Oliver didn't have a lot of friends to call on anymore, and the one he did…he wasn't sure she'd approve. Felicity thought he'd been spending too much time alone at Laurel's grave already, and if the magic-skeptic learned he'd just gone and dug it up on a hope and a prayer because John Constantine _thought_ there was something going on—well, he could already see the look of worry and disappointment in his mind's eye.

Oliver tried to focus on something else. Not Laurel; it was too hard to look at her laid out on the floor. Instead he watched John as the occultist darted around the body, placing the supplies he'd brought with him at specific points of the intricate circle drawn underneath her. Apparently they were required in order for Laurel's soul to be returned somewhere "actually livable," according to the occult expert. "Ra's al Ghul never had a monopoly on restorative magic," was all he'd cared to elaborate.

"You're sure this will work? We can still save her?" Oliver had lost track of how many times he'd asked.

"Mate, if she's hung on this long," John answered, "she's not going anywhere just yet. Not without a fight at least, I'd wager." The roguish grin softened somewhat as he straightened back up, and he reached out to Oliver's shoulder again. "Look, there's two outcomes to this that don't involve the worst case scenario. One, we release her soul from its entrapment and lay her back to rest in good conscience. If we manage even that, you should consider it a job well-done, Oliver. She'll be at peace."

"But gone," he filled in what the other man wasn't saying. It was selfish, but having this new knowledge that Laurel was truly still with him…most might find it unsettling, but it was a gift Oliver hadn't expected to receive. He didn't know how he hadn't realized it before, and he wondered if Darhk had; if that had been the true source of the fear in his eyes when Oliver had first countered his magic.

John didn't answer him directly, instead continuing his explanation. "Two, we extract her soul from you and manage to return it to her body. Depends how far gone she is, because the longer her spirit stays trapped within you the more it loses its identity, no matter how good your protections are. You've already drawn on some of her power to defeat Darhk."

Oliver tried not to dwell guiltily on that. "And the worst case scenario?"

"Your souls become entwined together and you really do end up possessed. Then I'll be performing the most complicated exorcism of my career. So let's try to avoid that."

"Right."

John seemed to give him a closer look. "No objections?"

"I'm not wasting time," Oliver stated with finality. There was no world in which he wasn't about to go through with this.

"Right. Best to get started soon as possible." The occultist gestured to the open space left slightly off-center in the circle, at Laurel's right. "You'll need to lie down with her."

He moved to do so, careful not to disturb anything John had already put in place.

"I should warn you," the man began, "this isn't the other realm. We'll be delving into the depths of your soul, and hers. Esrin was only testing you before; that'll look like child's play compared to this. Think you're up for it?"

Oliver nodded, then closed his eyes. The fingers of his left hand twitched, then curled into his palm. Laurel's body was cold and still next to his. He heard John begin to speak in that wholly unfamiliar tongue and then, much like before, he was suddenly standing in another place, bow in his hand and quiver slung over his shoulder.

It wasn't the cavernous corridors of Nanda Parbat that met his eyes, and he stumbled slightly at the sensation of his feet sinking into plush carpeting. The lighting was dim with curtains drawn over every window, and everything seemed faded and muted somehow. But he'd still recognize it anywhere. "This is the Manor."

"Where you grew up, I take it?" John asked to his right, and Oliver nodded. "Good. It's all a visualization, really, but this is your center, your home. That means we've reached pretty deep already. Laurel will be around here somewhere. We just have to find where your centers have joined." The other man skirted around the table with its myriad of photographs, memories of when things were simple…the way they used to be.

There was a picture out of place with the rest, not the least because Oliver knew it had never sat there. Crinkled and worn at the edges, faded from over-exposure, but just as warm and radiant as the day Laurel had given it to him.

He'd been a fool to ever give it back.

"Oliver!" The sharpness of John's tone had him looking to the top of the stairs immediately. "We don't want to linger. Especially not once we've found Laurel's center."

"Right." He gave a minute shake of the head to clear it, then took the steps two at a time to catch up.

John didn't provide any further rebuke, he simply turned and continued to lead them down a hall. They passed door after door that the other man didn't even bother to glance at much less open. He wondered what they contained. Pieces of his identity, like the occultist had said Laurel was struggling to hang onto? Or the darkness that at times threatened to overwhelm him, that Esrin Fortuna had claimed he would never be able to win against?

"Well, this is certainly incongruous," the occultist remarked just as they turned a corner into the hall that contained Oliver's room in his recollection—or should have.

It was another hall—but markedly different from the others and one he instantly recognized. "This is it," he stated with confidence, striding towards the door right at the end—it was already slightly ajar. "This is her apartment, she has to be here."

But when he pushed the door open, Laurel's apartment with its warm red tones were not merely muted, but in grayscale. The candles set in her fireplace were dying out, wisps of smoke trailing from their wicks. And Laurel herself was nowhere to be seen.

"Ohh, not good at all," John murmured, stepping around him to get a better look. "The protections are failing. We might be too late." Oliver opened his mouth, but the man held up a hand to stop him. "Hear that?"

He listened. There was a...fluttering, like something whipping back and forth in a strong wind, or the beating of wings. Not just a set of wings, more like a flock.

"Get down!" John commanded, just as that flock materialized. Countless birds of a deep black color suddenly streamed through the windows, the fireplace, the door they'd entered through, flapping and cawing and diving for the pair of them. The air was so thick with them that they appeared more as a dark cloud moving en masse, engulfing everything in sight.

Oliver instinctively raised his arms over his head protectively, but was unprepared for the sharp pain of talons clawing at his skin. With a yell, he began brandishing his bow in an effort to ward them off. "John!"

"We've been interpreted as intruders!" His guide shouted over the tumult. The occultist said something in the unknown language again, and there was a brief, blinding flash of light. The birds and their noise were gone. Oliver blinked the spots away, only to realize they weren't in Laurel's apartment anymore.

The moon was hidden behind clouds, but there was enough light from the sputtering of a few streetlamps for him to start to get his bearings. "We're in the Glades. What now?"

"Now, we proceed very cautiously," John answered. "She's fighting the absorption with her own darkness, her own memories, giving up ground little by little. If we don't find her soon—"

A car came barreling around the corner with screeching tires. Oliver pushed John out of the way onto the sidewalk, then held out his hands. Inches from him, the car braked.

"Laurel?" Oliver hurried around to the driver's side and wrenched the door open, only to draw back in surprise. "Mrs. Lance."

"I'm sorry, I can't stay," the older woman told him, shaking her head with tears in her eyes.

"What do you mean? What are you doing here? Were you with Laurel?"

"Leave her, Oliver," John commanded.

"What?" He looked around at the occultist. "This is Laurel's mother—"

"No she isn't. Not really. She's just a projection. And she's already lost to Laurel, look at her."

"I _have_ to go, _please_," Mrs. Lance begged.

"What do you mean 'lost'? She's…she's forgetting her own mother?" Something that felt like ice settled in the pit of his stomach. "John, we have to take her with us. Laurel can't just _forget_ her. We can't let that happen."

"I can't stay, I can't stay here." The woman's tears were spilling over now. She buried her face in her hands. "I'm sorry. Honey, I'm sorry, I have to go. You be good and look after your father, but I—I just can't stay. _I'm sorry_."

"Mrs. Lance?" She didn't even react, as though he hadn't spoken. There was a suitcase and several bags in the backseat, he noticed. Like she wasn't just leaving, but moving.

Just like she already had.

John grabbed him by the arm. "What we _can't _let happen is for us to be distracted by these barriers thrown up in our way. Let's worry about finding our Canary first, eh?"

Oliver allowed himself to be pulled away. Scarcely had he cleared the curb before Dinah Lance had slammed the door and sped down the road out of sight. He pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead, looking around for some new sign or indicator.

"Wait, wait, this street. They renamed it when it was rebuilt after the Undertaking. It's still got the old name…come on, I think I know where to go."

He pelted down empty streets, the occultist close behind—only to stagger to a halt just short of their destination. CNRI stood tall and whole, with someone waiting in front of the doors.

"Tommy," Oliver breathed.

"I thought I wanted this," his oldest friend was saying with packed bags the same as Laurel's mother. "You." He shook his head, then turned and walked through the doors.

"Tommy, don't!" Oliver darted forward, but a loud _boom_ and a rumbling in the ground sent him sprawling. Before his eyes, CNRI crumbled into a heap of brick and mortar. Tommy was still inside somewhere—of course he was—and the old wound still managed to feel like a fresh stab of pain. His head bowed. "_No_."

"Oliver! Let's go, mate, let's go. The protections are crumbling. We've got to find her before they all break down," John told him, staggering over across uneven ground. He struggled to his feet and let the occultist lead on.

They turned onto a street with hordes of blinking neon signs boasting brands and happy hours. Tremors continued to wrack the ground but through smoky windows he could see the hunched shoulders of patrons refusing to budge from their stools or their drinks.

And it was one patron in particular who immediately stood out to him. "No. No, not you." He banged a fist on the glass but the man inside didn't even flinch. "She's your rock! You said it yourself—"

"He's not _real_, Oliver!"

Quentin Lance drained his shot glass, then motioned to the bartender for another one. Oliver made for the door, only to find it was locked.

"Oliver—"

"What happens, John?" He demanded, whirling around to face the occultist. "Once they're gone, once they've left. Does she lose them forever? She's not going to be _Laurel_ without them, even if we get her back. They need her, _we_ need her."

"No, we need to find her. That's what we need," the other man countered. "Because right now, mate? _She_ needs _you_." His gaze drifted over Oliver's shoulder. "And I need to send you on without me."

Oliver turned. Just like the foray into his soul with Esrin, or even his nightmares, Damien Darhk stood not thirty feet away from them. He raised a hand, shadows seeping in and growing around him. "John—"

"Go! I can battle the darkness, Oliver. It's you who needs to find the light."

They were running out of time. The occultist didn't need to say it again for Oliver to understand. He backed away a couple steps, then turned from John and Darhk and the bar Laurel's father had crawled into. John had a mission, and he had his.

He pushed himself onward, eyes scanning the storefronts for some kind of sign. He was looking for something, he just didn't know what. Laurel had to be somewhere, but he was running out of ideas. If not her apartment and not CNRI, then where? Where would she be while her world collapsed in around her?

"Ollie!" A woman's voice called. And it wasn't Laurel, but he still looked up with a spark of hope.

"Sara."

She was waiting down the road for him with open arms and a smile, not like her mother or father or Tommy.

"Ollie! Come on, Ollie," she called again, a carefree giggle leaving her lips as he staggered his way over through another tremor in the earth. "C'mon!" She urged. "Run!"

"Sara," he repeated in relief as he made it to her. She took his hand. "You know where she is, don't you? You have to." She wasn't like the others at all; she was happy and young, no sign of the stress of all those years away and how they changed her.

"Run away with me!" She pulled him forward, towards an alley he would have likely passed up. He tried to think if it had any significance to Laurel. Was this the way to Wildcat's gym?

"You're taking me to her. Can you tell me where?"

She shook her head with another giggle. "Run away, Ollie! Run away from Laurel!"

He reeled back, yanking his hand from her hold. "What did you say?"

"Run away from Laurel!" Sara declared again with arms spread wide. "You're beautiful and alive, Oliver. She's not those things. Not anymore. Let's run away, let's leave her. Everybody does."

"No." He shook his head, hands clenching into fists and a heavy, sick feeling in his stomach. "I don't believe that, and I'm not giving up. I'm not failing her this time. Not this time." He took a step forward. "So Sara—if you're _anything_ like Sara—your sister needs your help, and you're going to help me. Where is Laurel?"

"Where you left her," she answered simply, a slight lift to her shoulders like a shrug. Her whole demeanor changed with that one motion; suddenly she was carrying the burden of her past again. "Where we've all left her—in the dark water. Slowly drowning all these years."

"Water," he echoed, looking to the right down the road he'd been following though he hadn't known why. Storm clouds were gathering in the sky above, and a wind started whipping at his clothes and Sara's hair. "_Laurel_." Without another word, he took off again.

"Oliver!"

Heedless of Sara's yell, he ran. His feet seemed to fly now that he understood, now that he _knew_. Rain began dotting the pavement and splashing against his cheeks the further he went. The ground continued to rumble with aftershocks. But above all of that rose the crashing of the waves against the bay.

The pier was cracked and crumbling, but Oliver picked his way over it, never breaking stride until he reached the very end. His eyes strained. Out in the distance he could spot the fateful yacht—but that wasn't what mattered, not here, not anymore.

There was something else out in the open sea. _Someone_ else.

"Laurel!"

A single glimpse of an arm waving frantically above the waves.

He hit the water before he could even think, bow and quiver tossed aside to leave his arms free. It was dark and cold and threatening to suck him under just as that night so many years before. But he was stronger now. He kicked his legs, propelling himself forward, squinting through the growing storm to try and find his way. "Laurel!"

Then he saw her at last breaking the surface, struggling to keep her head above water. "Help! Please, help me! Somebody!"

A wall of water rose over them both. Oliver took a gulp of air and squeezed his eyes shut as it forced him under, then began kicking madly to the surface once more. He came back up, turning this way and that in the water. But he was alone.

His heart stuttered in his chest. "Laurel? Laurel!"

There was a gasp followed by hacking coughs from behind him. Laurel was just barely bobbing in the waves, her gaze fixed skyward.

"Somebody. Please," she repeated weakly, her eyes falling closed. He reached her just before she could slip back under.

"Laurel? Laurel, I'm here! I'm here now." The water weighed her down more than usual, but still he managed to gather her as best he could into his arms, careful to keep her head up over the waves. "Just hang on. _Please_, just hang on."

Oliver turned onto his back, keeping Laurel balanced on his chest as he towed them both to shore, fighting the pull of the tide that seemed to cling to them. By the time the water was merely lapping at his legs he was exhausted, but he kept kicking. There wasn't time to even think about giving up. She was so still.

Just as the shore was coming up to meet them, he heard a voice. "Oliver!"

"John?" He craned his neck back; sure enough, the occultist was standing at the pier. "You're alright?"

"Course, I had the easy part. I told you, you're not as dark as you try to make yourself out to be, mate." The other man hurried around onto the shoreline, wading up to his shins as Oliver finally shifted onto his knees, then turned with Laurel draped in his arms to climb up onto dry land. The occultist hovered just by his elbow, peering closely at her pale face and reaching gently to check the pulse at her neck. "Alright, set her down here."

Oliver's grip tightened, and he swallowed a lump in his throat. "Did I—how do we know if she's still with us?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out, mate." John glanced up at him, and something in his tone softened as he laid a hand on his shoulder. "Look, you've saved her soul from the darkness. I'll do everything I can to bring her back to you, but this is already a victory. Alright?"

He didn't trust his voice to respond verbally, so he nodded. Then, with selfish reluctance, he slowly lowered Laurel to the ground.

John began murmuring in that other language again, stood with his arms raised over her body. Oliver held onto Laurel's hand with murmurings of his own.

"Please, Laurel. Don't go." Her hair was plastered to one side of her face. He smoothed it back. "I still need you in my life. That will always be true. And you promised—Lord knows you owe me nothing." He fell back onto his heels as he drew in a shuddering breath. "I don't deserve your friendship, much less your…love." He squeezed his eyes shut; they were stinging in a way the seawater hadn't managed to make them. "God, please Laurel, you can't go. I'm sorry, but I—I still need to say—"

Slender fingers twitched, then curled around his wrist. Oliver's breath caught in his throat.

Her eyes fluttered open. They slid from his face to John and back with wide, vacant curiosity. Her face was blank.

"Laurel." Oliver leaned forward, his free hand half-extended before he paused to look back at the occultist. The other man had stopped speaking and nodded him on. "Laurel," he repeated, and it wasn't until then that she responded at all.

She blinked, something like recognition finally in her eyes. "That's…my name." Her gaze dropped to their joined hands, only for her brow to furrow and a small frown to appear. "How do you…?"

"Know?" He supplied gently. She looked up at him again. "I know because I…I know you, Laurel. I've known you for over half of my life. Do you remember? It's okay if you don't right now," he added as she continued to stare. "My name is Oliver Queen."

Laurel pushed herself up, first onto an elbow and then to sitting. He barely held back from helping; despite her wariness she hadn't yet taken her other hand from his, and he wasn't willing to risk losing that contact.

"Oliver," she echoed disjointedly, and the sound cut through him; it was wrenchingly audible how that single word sat heavy and unfamiliar on her tongue. She was so close, so _real_, but without anything that made her _her_. He didn't dare to look at John, who no doubt was preparing to console him before sending Laurel away, forever.

"Yeah, that's right," he said instead, forcing an encouraging smile to his face.

"And I know you?"

"Better than anyone," he affirmed. "It'll come to you. Is there anything you do remember?" Oliver wondered if he would be able to let the occultist do it if he deemed it necessary, or if he would beg the man to bring her back even as a stranger. If Thea or Sara or Quentin would thank him for her quiet neutrality, her vague puzzlement.

"I was drowning," she stated, eyes on the sea. The waves were no longer dark and choppy. The clouds were drifting away. "I was all alone, and I was drowning. Everyone was gone, they'd left—"

"I know," he said quietly. "I know, Laurel. I'm sorry."

"But you—you're here." Her free hand was raised, trembling in the air between them. Slowly she reached out, as if half-remembering an action. It was only the tips of her fingers that touched upon his cheek, but Oliver's eyes still closed at the sensation. "You came back. You _always_ come back."

Something in her tone, the wonder or the gratitude, it threatened to overwhelm him. "I'm sorry it always takes me so long."

"Ollie." His eyes flew open again. Laurel was smiling—and it was _Laurel_, fully present, all the warmth and pain and wisdom of the years weighted in her gaze. "You're right on time."

It was like the breaking of a dam. He pulled her in, burying his face in the curve where her neck met shoulder. His hand cupped the back of her head, holding her close to him so that the heaving breaths he took were like breathing _her_, there was so little space for air. He felt her hands rubbing at his back, brushing the short hairs at the very nape of his neck and if he could have held her tighter, he would have.

"Laurel," he choked out, "_Laurel_, God I can't believe I could have lost you again."

"I don't really understand what's going on," she confessed in his ear, a hitch in her breath as he pressed his nose to her hair.

"Well I could give explaining it a go" remarked John, almost painfully loud. Oliver tensed in momentary shock. He'd entirely forgotten the occultist was there.

Laurel pulled away to look up at the man. "Constantine?"

"At your service, love." He offered his hand to her, pulling her up from the sandy ground. Oliver struggled back up on his own. "Unfortunately—or fortunately I'd say, there was a bit of a complication from the last time our little trio had a misadventure. Turns out your and Oliver's souls were awfully stubborn about letting go of each other, meaning you never quite passed over to the other side." Another quick wink was thrown in Oliver's direction. "We're bringing you back to life."

Laurel faltered half a step back. "I…didn't know I'd died."

"Well now you won't have," Oliver stated firmly. "John?"

"Right." The occultist set his stance, raised his hands, and began a final set of words incomprehensible to either of them. At the last second, Oliver reached out and grasped one of her hands in his.

Then he was blinking up at the bright lights of the base. From beside him there came a gasp. "Oh God, it's freezing in here."

"That'd be your circulation getting back to work. Give it a few," advised John.

Laurel sat up, shivering in the spaghetti-strap dress she'd been laid to rest in, and it felt like a long-suppressed instinct to simply pull her into his arms. Knowing that this was physically real, his holding her—with life blooming in her cheeks and sparking in her eyes—somehow was even better.

"Thanks," she murmured into his chest. She _breathed_. Oliver closed his eyes against a threatening wave of tears.

"Well, have to say that went better than I was holding out hope for," John said as he moved to gather up the various items he had laid out and making them both very aware of his continued presence. Oliver was starting to suspect he was getting a kick out of interrupting. "Always a pleasure to work with you two."

With a grimace, he released Laurel in order to stand up and meet the other man. "John, thank you. You don't know how much you've done for me. If there's ever anything—"

The occultist was already shaking his head. "Mate, at some point we're just going to have to give up that tally as a bad job. Consider it a favor from a friend."

"I do," he stated simply.

"Well if there's anything _I_ can ever do," Laurel spoke up at his side. "You've saved Sara, you saved me…I owe you so much." She stepped forward, pulling the other man into a hug, which might have been one of the few times Oliver saw him caught off guard.

"Tell you what, love, promise me you and your sister will stop dying on this one over here and we'll call it even," was John's eventual suggestion. "You'll drive him round the bend at this rate."

Laurel glanced back at Oliver, but he had nothing to dispute. Her lips quirked in a tentative smile before she turned back to John. "I think we have a deal."

"Brilliant." The occultist dropped a kiss to her cheek before pulling away. "I won't take up any more of your time. I'm sure coming back to life is a messy business far as the paperwork's concerned, and I've got to be on my way. Oliver," he offered a hand.

Oliver glanced at it, then opened up his arms instead. "John."

Pleasantly surprised, the other man moved in for the embrace. "You know how to reach me."

"Likewise."

As the elevator closed on the occultist with a _ding_, he and Laurel turned to face each other. Immediately, his mind started searching for some kind of pretext to reach out for her again. It simply wasn't enough to look at her.

"So, I've been, uh, _gone_," she started delicately. He nodded. "How long, exactly?"

"Almost a month," he answered.

Laurel blew out a breath. "So there's been a funeral and everything."

"Yeah."

"My family?"

"They all think you're dead, yes," he confirmed. Her eyes were slowly drifting around the room, searching. "They don't know about this—I didn't tell them," he rushed to explain. "John wasn't sure if we'd be able to get you back and I thought they might be better off not knowing if we'd failed."

She nodded. "Right, that was probably for the best."

"They'd be here if they'd known, Laurel."

Her gaze snapped up to his, surprised and guilty. "I know," she agreed too quickly.

Oliver took a step closer. "I don't think you could ever know what it was like…with you gone. It—so much happened. So much went wrong. We—we fell apart. We barely _survived_ without you, Laurel."

She was gaping at him, like she couldn't believe the truth of his words. "It couldn't have _all_ been bad," she tried to reason. "Darhk?"

"He's…gone," was all he felt ready to say. "And the city is still standing. Actually I was named the mayor, at least for the interim—"

"Oliver, that's amazing!" Laurel moved as if she'd seriously been thinking about embracing him again, only to hold herself back at the last moment.

"I have no idea what I'm doing," he confessed. "I have the plans, the policies we drew up with Alex, but it just…hasn't been the same. _I_ haven't been the same." He was standing right in front of her now, willing her to see the sincerity in his eyes. "That's how it's been, ever since we thought we lost you. We may be alive, we may have been surviving, but we were lost without you."

Laurel didn't speak for a long moment. "I don't know what to say. I'm sorry—"

"No." He gave a quick shake of the head. Only Laurel would think that her far-too-near-death was an inconvenience to apologize for. "That's not what I meant. You didn't do this, I'm just…so relieved."

"You look exhausted," she observed. "What time is it? What _day_ is it, even? God, it's hard to believe a whole month has just gone by. I've missed so much. My family, my job, all of this," she turned with a wide gesture of her arm to encompass the base, her skirt fanning out from her ankles. She looked down at it. "Someone else put me in this dress. Is that weird to think about?"

"No," he assured again, unable to help a smile. Oliver placed a hand to her shoulder, hoping to help center her. "Nothing about this is normal, Laurel, but we're going to get you through it. I'm here for you, and I think it's fair to say that I have at least a little experience reentering a life."

"You're kind of the expert," she corrected wryly. "You and Sara. Has she been home since I was, uh, dead?"

"Once. But the next time she comes back, we'll tell her. And we'll tell the others, too. Just maybe not at—" he took a glance at his wristwatch, "—three-thirty in the morning. We've got time." They had all the time in the world, now.

Yet he was painfully aware of how he'd thought there was no time not even twenty-four hours ago. And now Laurel was standing before him, beautiful and alive.

"Right," she was agreeing, mind still whirring away like always trying to do everything at once. "I should let you get to bed then, you've probably got work in the morning—of course you do, you're the mayor." She backed away a couple steps; he didn't know how to ask her not to do that, how to put into words that he needed to be near her. "I guess I'll just wait here? Unless Thea isn't staying at the apartment. That's if it's even still my apartment. You know what?" She held up her hands. "It can wait. Go get some sleep. You've got somewhere to stay now, right?"

"I love you," was his answer.

She physically reeled back. "_What_?"

Oliver remained perfectly calm, stating again, "I love you. I know you didn't ask, but I also know that it's true." He moved towards her, closing the distance between them as she watched with wide eyes.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because anything can happen," he solemnly echoed the words he'd thought were some of her last. "Because anything almost _did_ happen."

"When I said that, I wasn't—" she cut herself off with a shaky breath, then tried again. "I don't expect anything from you that you can't give me."

"I know you don't. You never have," he replied softly. "All you've ever asked me for is my best, Laurel, and that's what I want to give you. If that's what you want." He reached for her hands, and she didn't pull away.

But still she eyed him like she couldn't quite believe him. "Oliver…this just seems so sudden."

He grimaced. "I know it seems like I'm jumping into this without thinking. I know to you it seems like I only just broke off an engagement. And I know this probably isn't what most people would call good timing." He shrugged, at something of a loss. "We never are. And I'm tired of letting that ruin us. I feel how I feel, somehow you feel the same way, and _impossibly_ we have another chance. Why should any of the rest of it matter?"

"There's loads of reasons," she told him, without any real vehemence.

"There are?"

"Probably." She was already rocking up onto her toes, and one of his arms wound around her waist while the other hand went to her hair. Laurel's kiss was better than his memories, better than his dreams. It was like coming home again after so long. All his hurts and exhaustion seemed to melt away. His eyes were closed, awash in sensations he never thought he'd get to experience again.

Laurel mumbled his name against his lips. He broke away only to start trailing them across her cheek. "We're a mess," she whispered, her breath hot in his ear. "We're crazy."

"Mm-hm," he agreed, smiling against the underside of her jaw. She obliged him with a tilt of the head, then released a breathy laugh. Oliver paused with a raised brow; she wasn't ticklish there from his recollection.

"Sorry, I just—I'm wearing the clothes I was _buried_ in, in a real grave which you and Constantine dug up without telling anyone, you have work in the morning not to mention everything you'll need to help me with, but the first thing we can think to do is make out like a couple teenagers."

"You say that like adults aren't allowed to make out," was his response. She pressed a hand over her mouth, hiding the grin at his words. "Is there a problem with my priorities?"

"_I_ don't see one," she consoled him, cupping his cheek before her gaze turned more serious. "Others might."

"You think we shouldn't wait to tell everyone."

"After everything you told me? I know it's early, but wouldn't they want to know?"

"Yeah," he admitted with a sigh. "You're right. I'm sorry, I just…needed this."

She replaced the hand on his cheek with her lips for a long moment. "I understand."

"Well, how do you want to go about this? Your father took some time off out of town. He isn't here."

She pursed her lips in thought. "In that case I was thinking maybe we should start with—"

"Thea?" He guessed the same moment she spoke his sister's name. They shared a smile; Oliver frankly didn't think he would ever stop smiling. "Come on."

With her hand in his it felt as if some missing piece had been slotted into place, and he was no longer lost. And that, he felt, was the single most magical thing he would ever know.


End file.
